


Dearer Than Eyesight, Space and Liberty

by Slenderlock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A bit of angst at the beginning, But it fluffens up at the end, Fluffy Ending, Hamish is nine I think, M/M, Non canon compliant, Series three doesn't exist, Sherlock is such a good parent, That would make him six when Sherlock died, if they got together in the middle of season two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 02:55:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slenderlock/pseuds/Slenderlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock comes home.</p>
<p>
  <i> “Daddy?” the boy whispered. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>The man stirred. “Wh- Hamish?” John shoved the blanket off his shoulders, sitting up. “What’s wrong?”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Hamish clutched a stuffed bee to his chest. “I had a nightmare,” he whispered. The bee shook as he inhaled, mimicking his stuttering heart. “Can I sleep with you?” </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dearer Than Eyesight, Space and Liberty

A minute hand inched slowly towards the printed “5” on the alarm clock resting on a bedside table. The hour hand was lazily sat on the “2”, sluggishly falling with every passing second. The second hand marked the time, sixty beats per minute, two beats per measure. 

The books on the shelves were silent. The clothes folded in drawers refused to speak. The window shuddered with a gust of wind when it deemed the quiet unbearable. 

The man slept on.

A crack of light fell upon the man’s face, vanishing with the closing of a door. An intake of breath, a word held back, released.

“Daddy?” the boy whispered. 

The man stirred. “Wh- Hamish?” John shoved the blanket off his shoulders, sitting up. “What’s wrong?”

Hamish clutched a stuffed bee to his chest. “I had a nightmare,” he whispered. The bee shook as he inhaled, mimicking his stuttering heart. “Can I sleep with you?”

“Oh. Yeah, of course.” John heaved a pillow from the other side of the bed- _empty, empty_ \- and set it beside him, scrambling to make a space for his son. Hamish crossed the room on trembling legs. With one arm he held his bee, with the other he heaved himself onto the bed and snuggled close to his father, still shaking. He brought the bee back up to his chest and hugged it.

“You okay?” John asked, pulling him close and rubbing his back. Hamish shook his head. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

“I dreamed that Papa was here,” Hamish mumbled into his bee.

Oh.

John suddenly felt it very difficult to move. After some time, he managed to speak again.

“But that’s a good dream, isn’t it?”

“You were happy. He came back and you were happy again and we had chocolate chip pancakes.” Hamish sniffled, face buried in the soft fabric of his bee. “And you kissed papa and you were happy again. And then I woke up and Papa was gone again.” Hamish’s arms squeezed the bee until the two sides of fabric were pressed against each other in the middle, the stuffing having migrated to the ends.

“Oh, Hamish.” John slid down so that he could hug his son properly. “Hamish, baby, it’s all right. Come here.” Hamish’s shaking body fit perfectly against his own as he cradled his son in his arms. “Daddy’s here, all right? Daddy’s got you.”

“I miss Papa,” Hamish said, hiccupping. 

“I miss your Papa, too,” John murmured. “We both miss him.”

“Is Papa ever going to come back?” 

Hamish had his father’s brains. John knew Hamish knew Sherlock was never coming home again. He sighed, kissing Hamish gently on the forehead. 

“No,” he said, softly. “No, he’s not.”

Hamish sniffed, his grip on the bee relaxing. 

Together, they slept.

o0O0o

The living room said not a word as the night passed. The kitchen followed in suit. It had been clean for three years now, not a single body part to be found. The fridge was bare but for the groceries. The microwave was cleaned weekly. Upstairs, father and son rested. Downstairs was silent.

A creak on the downstairs door had the kitchen worried. Footsteps ascending upset the living room couch. The twist of a door handle usurped the stack of books set on the chair.

The man entered, and the room was silent no more.

Upstairs, the boy stirred. The man slept on.

A shoulder brushed an unfamiliar stack set on the table, sending the books tumbling to the ground. Sherlock cursed, stooping to pick them up from the floor. 

Socked feet padded down the staircase, quiet as anything. The bee could not buzz, would not buzz.

Sherlock righted himself, setting the books back where they belonged. He brushed off his coat, pulled off his gloves.

The feet stopped, frozen on the fourth step from the bottom. 

“Papa,” Hamish breathed, one arm curled around his bee, the other limp at his side. _“Papa.”_

“Hamish,” Sherlock said, unable to say anything else.

The bee was abandoned on the step; the socked feet flew past the next three. Hamish’s legs propelled him forward, crashing into his father. “Papa,” Hamish said again. “Papa, you’re home.”

Sherlock knelt, hugging his son around the middle, burying his face into Hamish’s neck. “I’m home,” he said. “I’m home and I’m never leaving you again, never. I promise.”

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock and Hamish, both with streaming eyes, looked to the stairs. 

“Papa!” Hamish said, taking Sherlock’s arm and leaping up and down. “Daddy, Papa’s home!” 

“You’re real,” John said.

“Yes.” Sherlock nodded, knees still bent, eyes still at level with his son’s, locked on John’s. “And I promise you I’ll explain everything later and you can be angry at me later, but for now, yes. I’m real and I’m home and unless you tell me to, I’m never leaving again.”

John said nothing. 

Hamish hugged Sherlock, tears beginning fresh again. Sherlock carded his fingers through his son’s hair. 

“Yeah,” John said. “Yeah, all right. All right.”

Hamish giggled as he felt both of his fathers around him, clutching each other. His Papa didn’t smell quite right, didn’t feel exactly the same, but that was okay. They were together again, that was what mattered. His Papa was here again, his Daddy was happy, smiling even through his tears. Hamish could see it.

“Hamish,” Sherlock said. Hamish didn’t think he was ever going to get used to hearing his Papa’s voice. 

“Papa?”

“I love you very much.” Sherlock kissed Hamish’s forehead, then his cheeks then everywhere he could reach until Hamish was wriggling, giggling and squealing. “We’re going to go upstairs to bed now, all three of us,” he said, as he peppered Hamish with kisses. “And when we wake up, we’re going to have breakfast and I’m going to make you pancakes, with chocolate, just the way you like them. And we’re all going to stay here all day. You won’t have to go to school. We’ll stay here, all three of us. Yes?”

Hamish nodded vigorously. “Yes, Papa.” Sherlock ruffled his hair, just like he always had. John felt something in his heart twist at the fact that Sherlock didn’t know what day it was, didn’t know that it was Friday and Hamish wouldn’t have to go to school, anyway. But he ignored it. That would come later. For now, Sherlock was here. 

“I’m never going to leave you like that again, I promise.” 

“Come on.” John stood, holding a hand out for Sherlock to take. He gripped John’s arm and stood, wincing a little as his cracked rib protested the movement. He stooped down and heaved Hamish up into his arms, cradling him. “To bed, I think,” John said. Sherlock nodded. Hamish hooked his arms around his Papa’s neck.

Together, they climbed the stairs. Together, they curled underneath the blankets. Together, they held each other, each needing the others’ presence. Together, they slept.

The clock on the table continued to count.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Shakespeare's King Lear, Act one scene one. The full quote reads: _"I love you more than words can wield the matter, Dearer than eyesight, space and liberty."_


End file.
